


hold the nail for the hammer stroke

by pearwaldorf



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: (if people can do it with men turnabout is fair play), Bonding over alcohol, F/F, I do what I want, I don't care if we know nothing about their dynamic, and apparently what I want is to write femslash with the flimsiest of premises, because it's a two minute trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 04:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6500563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Take your leisure, you and your companions both. You deserve it.” Mothma drops her hands, gives her a little unexpected smile. She nods in acknowledgement of it, absolutely does not think about how her cheeks flush with heat, and leaves the war room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold the nail for the hammer stroke

**Author's Note:**

> This is [notcaycepollard's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard) [fault](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6494353). 
> 
> Title from [Tall Heights](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oqoiWxQsNSI).

The plans are delivered. The commander (whose name she never did catch) thanks her, with a lack of severity that might actually be gratitude. Mothma actually smiles and takes Jyn’s hands in hers, squeezing them for a moment. 

“We are grateful to you and your colleagues, Jyn. You’ve done the Rebellion a service that we cannot expect to repay.” Jyn looks down at the floor. _Nothing behind it, Erso._ She’s a politician, glad-handing like they all do, smoothing over necessaries with words she’ll forget in a week. 

“It was an honor. I'd do it again if I needed to.” To Jyn’s dismay, she finds the words are true. _You're going soft in your old age, taking your eyes off the hustle._ There's no guarantee even with the schematics this overambitious assault the Rebels have planned will succeed. It probably won't, and if the Empire finds her she'll be shot as a collaborator. If she's lucky. Always better to have an escape route, in case things go wrong.

And yet. She's seen the Death Star, read the specs, what it's supposedly capable of. That's not a universe she wants to live in, and if the Rebels are crazy enough to fight for one where they’re all free from the yoke of the Empire? Would it be so terrible to lend them a hand?

“Take your leisure, you and your companions both. You deserve it.” Mothma drops her hands, gives her a little unexpected smile. She nods in acknowledgement of it, absolutely does not think about how her cheeks flush with heat, and leaves the war room.

\--

Jyn and her crew celebrate a job well done, well into the night. From the bodies sprawled out everywhere in their suite, it appears that they celebrated much harder than her. She nurses a last shot, listening to the chorus of snores around her. It was a good job, and as much as she hates to admit it, she'll miss having them at her back.

The door chimes softly, and Jyn gets up. She has no idea who it could be this late, but it's probably important. She does not expect to see Mothma on the other side. She expects her to be holding a finely cut bottle of amber liquid even less.

“I apologize for the lateness of my call. I meant to give you this earlier, but we were finalizing some things, and the time got away.” She hovers in the doorway, and Jyn kicks herself mentally.

“D’you want to come in?” She remembers to step away, and Mothma enters, gracefully skirting a prone body. If she’s offended by the aftermath of the debauchery in front of her, she’s doing a good job of not showing it. Poker faces are useful for politicians, Jyn reminds herself.

Mothma sets the bottle on the table. “Chandrilan whiskey, from my own personal stock.”

“Didn’t know Chandrilans made whiskey.” It looks expensive. Jyn wonders if she’d even be able to tell the difference between the swill she’s used to and the good stuff.

Mothma smiles, as if letting her in on a secret. “We don’t make much, but from what other people tell me, it’s some of the best they’ve had.” 

“Obviously this calls for a comparison.” She pulls out a bottle of Corellian rotgut from under the table. Even this is a bit rough for her tastes, but might as well see what politicians do when they actually spend time with the people. 

She finds the last clean shot glass in the entire suite and pours generously, pushing it over. Mothma, to her credit, downs it all in one go, but still makes a face. (Jyn doesn’t hold it against her, because it’s nasty stuff. She wouldn’t be human if she didn’t think it was terrible.) 

“What do you think?” 

Mothma takes a sip of water from a canteen on the table. “Definitely bracing. Quite assertive.” Jyn laughs, loud enough that some of her slumbering companions shift at the noise, but settle back into sleep. 

Mothma uncorks her bottle, refilling the glass before sliding it back towards Jyn. She picks up the glass, smelling vanilla and wood. The whiskey is mostly smooth, with a hint of smoke and a small bite on the way down that leaves her warm, happy. 

“Your other people might know something after all, because it’s definitely the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” she finally says. Mothma outright grins, and she becomes luminous. It’s then that Jyn knows she is very very drunk, because otherwise ridiculous metaphors seem perfectly reasonable. 

“I was hoping you’d like it,” she says. It’s the first thing Mothma’s said that doesn’t speak of complete assurance, and it surprises Jyn. Maybe politicians have flesh and blood too, somewhere.

“I do.” Jyn hands her the glass. “You should have some too.” Mothma drinks the rest of it, a small glow of pleasure on her face. It also occurs to Jyn that it’s the first time she’s seen her relaxed, and she wonders how much the woman actually bears on those slim shoulders with such grace. (Kriff, she must be absolutely smashed, thinking about things like this.) 

“I could do this all night. Although it’s been a long time since I actually have.” Mothma toys with the glass, rolling it between her fingers. She has elegant hands, entrancing when they move. 

“You could, if you wanted.” Jyn gestures to the bottle, which they’ve barely touched. 

Mothma smiles, but this time with wistfulness and a bit of regret. “I have things to do tomorrow. Your success has set many plans in motion, all of which need my attention. But I assure you, I want to, very much.” 

“Another time, hopefully.” As the words leave her mouth Jyn finds that she means it. 

Mothma leans in, kisses her so softly she doesn’t realize it’s happening until she tastes whiskey, sweet and bright, against her tongue. Jyn makes a noise, half-surprised half-needy, and she wants to fall through the floor in embarrassment. Mon laughs quietly against her mouth, her thumb brushing against the line of Jyn’s cheek, and she finds she doesn’t care like she did a moment ago. Finally, she pulls away, and Jyn tries not to feel bereft. (She fails, and hopes it doesn’t show too much on her face.) 

“I’ll make sure it happens.” Mon’s voice is quiet, but there is an assurance in it that makes Jyn glad she’s sitting down. Jyn glances at the chrono on the wall, and Mon follows her gaze. “I really do have to go.” It shouldn’t make her feel better that Mon sounds genuinely apologetic, but it does.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jyn says. 

Mon presses one last kiss to her forehead. “I would expect nothing less.” 

The slide of the door is loud in the quiet. Jyn pours herself another shot of the Chandrilan whiskey. This one she’s going to savor.


End file.
